


Heads, I win

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Prank wars [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathroom Sex, Caring Reader, Confessions, Dean grapples with emotions again, Duck downy fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Hair Washing, Love Confessions, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pampering, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Reader-Insert, Revelations, Sam's a cheeky bastard, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam argue over who you like more and Sam pranks Dean with humiliation only you can fix (Set S8/S9).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heads, I win

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my tumblr account

You wiped your crumby hands on your running shorts and felt skin where there should’ve been fabric. “Crap! Ugh, I wish I knew how to mend this.  That forest has snagged every pair I own.”

“You could totally fix that,” Dean looked at the frayed seam in your hands. “YouTube it.  You’re a quick learner.”

“Yeah,” you mumble.  You spread the patch on your thigh to see how much of your leg it really shows, and decide it isn’t bad enough just yet, definitely not enough to feel shy.  “Maybe.  It’ll keep,” you decide and smile at him before downing the last of your water. “Alright, I’m off.  Catch you later.”

“'Kay, bye,” he says absently, affecting his best friendly smile.

Sam nods at you from across the breakfast table as you stride out, then watches Dean watch you.  

It only takes Dean a moment to feel the stare but he doesn’t have anything ready to deflect what’s on his mind, so sighs under yet another of Sam’s pleading gazes and shrugs defeat.  

 _God, he’s so desperate,_ thinks Sam.

 _Look at him, asking permission,_ thinks Dean.

“Man,.. should-” Dean starts awkwardly, heading for the sink.  “Should really do somethin’ ‘bout that.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees.  “It’s been _a while_.”

“Months!” Dean nods.  “All the tension around here… It’d only take, like, one question and, you know,” he waves at the door, “things could… happen.”

“Yeah,” Sam almost laughs, “dude, that’s just what I was about to say!”

“Really?”

“More or less.  I mean, she’s a clever hunter-” He stands taking his breakfast plates to clean up.

“Crazy smart!” Dean agrees.

“-and she’s an impressive fighter-”

“And hot at it!”

“- _definitely_ \- and physically, I’m not gonna pretend, Dean, she’s… she’s…” Sam’s shaking his head, looking for the words as he gestures to the doorway where you last were, and loses a few moments thinking about how many nights he’d thought of you before getting himself to a slightly stickier sleep…

“Inspiring,” sighs Dean, apparently agreeing with his train of thought.  “Well, you know, go for it,” he shrugs.  “Get it done and then we’ll know.”

Sam flicks a double-take.  “Wait, what?  What do you mean 'go for it’?”

“Ask her out!” Dean frowns.

Sam gapes for a moment and tries to think of how to phrase this… “I think _you_ should ask her out.”

“Why would I do _that_?” he winces in confusion.  “She doesn’t like _me_.”

Sam’s countenance becomes stern.  He can’t believe this conversation. “Yes. She does,” Sam maintains.

Dean retorts, almost laughing it out as he puts away the juice and milk, “No, Sam, she likes you way more than me.”

Sam smirks at his effort, convinced that he’s all front, while Dean goes on insisting.  “You think I didn’t see how you bent over backwards for her those first few weeks?  You stocked the fridge with her favourite ice cream, you bought movies she liked, like _bought_ them after she said downloading was theft, and you changed the laundry liquid.  Sam, you even put her songs on your play lists!”  Dean shakes his head as he rinses the dishes.  “And the way you looked at her was just… _puppies_ swooned over the faces you made.  Ask her out, dude.”

Sam was caught in a truth, so worked the point.  “Okay!  Yeah!  I’ll admit I had a crush. But Dean, she _likes you_ , and I’m not wired to pursue someone who doesn’t really want me.”

“Are you dense?” Dean barks, surprising Sam with this volume.  “She smiles when she talks to you.  You guys have this easy, Sunday morning banter,” he’s almost disgusted with the recollection, “and you _giggle_ at each other.”

“Because she’s relaxed with me, Dean!” Sam leans in to press the point. “There isn’t that chemistry and I can see, when she looks at you, she can’t do it unless we’re focusing on work because you make her nervous.”  Dean frowns, shaking his head, as he listens to Sam go on.  “A good nervous, Dean.  Look… I can’t even begin to list all the ways I see it, but it’s just there.  Her crush for you is at least as strong as yours for her-” Dean flinches melodramatically at the suggestion, and Sam points at him, “and don’t you goddamn deny it.”

“Okay, whatever you reckon Sammy. _Whatever_. I think you’re full of shit.”

Sam throws his hands in the air interrupting him with the gesture, which infuriates Dean no end and his volume jumps when he demands “So fucking _ask her out_ or I will do it for you.  I’m sick of your sappy cuteness.   _Get the fuck on with it._ ” And with that, he storms out.

Sam marches into the hallway after him and yells at Dean’s receding form. “ _Yeah?_ Try this.  She doesn’t even _like_ pecan pie!”

* * *

 

Dean takes himself off to the gym and beats the shit out of the punching bag (because that’s exactly the exercise he’d been planning to do today. Yes sir.)  Just punching, like _a lot_ of punching, is a really important skill and something he should work on more often. Because the upper body needs stamina, that’s why.  Yeah.

After _a lot_ of not very satisfying punching Dean stops to breathe and looks at the bag.  He begins chewing his lip, lost in a train of though he can’t articulate.  It’s a feeling like dread, or regret, like nausea but in his lungs, and it’s frustrating, right on the edge of feeling stupid.

Dean goes back to punching, his fury a little cooler.  

Sam is too smart.  He’s usually right about things.  Not about everything, just… not usually wrong.   _Which is probably what’s going on,_ Dean reasons.   _Just my ego being an ass._

Dean keeps punching until his muscles begin to ache. He can feel the sweat building between his shoulder blades and realises he forgot to change out of his pyjamas first. He pauses again and looks down at himself, knuckles resting on the leather.

Dean does like you.  A lot.

He feels it strongly enough that it scares him.  

He thinks he can even remember the first time he saw you smile at Sam like that and how he made up a reason to leave the room.  In that moment, he’d been flooded with panic over his attraction to you, for reasons he would not begin to explore, and then the self-disparaging embarrassment he felt for not predicting how you’d connect with Sam dragged him down for days.  But he’d bucked up and reminded himself it was for the better.

Now, as he steps back from the bag, he feels himself resign.  He wants you to be with Sam, if it that’s what you want.  You two are his favourite people, after all.  He just knows, is convinced, that it’s never been in anyone’s best interests to be with him for more than 6hrs.  

Dean feels a wave of bitter resolution flow through him.  In his mind he visualises you there, just beyond his reach but within easy protective distance.  Right where you should be.  Near, not close.

He sighs to himself, feeling too old for this emotional confusion, and heads off to the shower and a heavy future of collecting flickers of affection from his sort-of sister-in-law.

* * *

You sit opposite Sam in the kitchen, showered and in your jeans and t-shirt, hair damp, barefoot, chatting over a coffee and some morning snacks.  

“You never run with me any more,” you say.

“Because you’re slow,” Sam smiles.

“I’m short,” you correct. “You’re mean.”  He laughs at you a little and you shrug,  “But yeah, I am slower.  Maybe you can drag me in a trolley or something.”

“When would you run?”

“You could drag me on a running machine,” you offer creatively.

“That’s fucking genius,” Sam agrees.

“Hey,” Dean grunts as he walks past to the coffee.  You both hey him back. He seems to have recently had a shower too, but has done a rubbish job of drying his hair.  

For months, this sight would have you lost in retrospective daydreams of his shower routine, how you might interrupt it, and all that lucky, lucky hot water.  Half the time you’d be caught blushing, but always you’d be in for hours of achy frustration.  Not a great way to start the morning.   _So_ instead you recite to yourself: _7, 14, 21, 28, 35…_

“So what do you two have planned for today?” Dean asks.  He’s beside Sam and seems to be eying him pointedly as he sips.

Sam looks to you asking, “Uh, research? I think there might be a job in New Jersey, but all I’ve got is spineless corpses.”

“Oooh, _God_ Sam,” you sensuously over emphasise your sigh, “I love your mortuary talk.”

Sam laughs but notices Dean look at you from under his hurt brow.

Dean’s trying not to think about punching.

“Well, hopefully I’ll have something really hot in an hour or so,” he nods.

“Yay,” you reply dryly and scratch your neck.  Your gaze lands on Dean as he stares at his mug and the itch slips your mind.  You notice his hair again and slowly the information your eyes are getting starts talking with your brain’s common knowledge and you realise now you’re giving Dean’s hair a damn hard stare because it is _not actually wet_.  

You slowly sit straight and drop your hand on the table.  Your eyes shift to Sam, who has a light, serene smile on his face and you understand the stunning fact that, most definitely, beyond a shred of doubt, with horror and awe… Sam has put glitter in Dean’s shampoo.

“Sam,” you whisper aghast.

He takes a deep, satisfied breath and, with admirable control, asks “Dean have you done something different with your hair today?”

Dean scowls at the odd question, replying with sarcasm. “Yeah, I washed it.”

You put your hand over your mouth and try, hopelessly, not to smile. Dean looks at you questioningly.  “It looks fine,” you deadpan. You try to frown your mouth into submission as it twists; you chew it, but it just won’t stay flat.  “Really pretty,” you add.

“It’s still fucking here, right?” Dean asks and gingerly pats his head to check.

“It’s here… it’s queer.” -He snaps a glare at you- “No, it’s there!” you assure, hands up.  “It’s fine, It’s gonna be fine.”

“’ _Gonna_ be’?!” he says, both hands on his head, and looks at Sam who’s decided now is the time to get up and get some distance.

“I think it looks… magical,” Sam grins and backs towards the door.

Dean lowers his hands and, after a moment, notices tiny flecks of silver glistening on his palms and fingers.  His eyes bulge – the optic nerves surely struggling to hold on – as he gapes and slowly looks at Sam.  His face changes colour.

“Dean,” you say steadily, “Dean, it’ll wash out.”

Then there’s a burst of action: Dean practically launches across the table growling “I’m gonna fucking _kill you_!” as Sam sprints away and you jump from your seat to get between them.  Your hands on his shoulders do nothing and his chest rams into yours, skidding you backwards before you anchor your foot on the doorway and push.

“You _**fucking asshole**_!” Dean bellows, near deafening you.  Sam’s laughter echoes in the hallway.  

Dean quickly takes a step back and turns a little so that your foothold falls, redirecting you into the hall.  Your feet wedge into the bottom of the wall and you try to not be distracted by his force. All that goddam power, hot against you…

“It’s okay! It’ll wash out!” you repeat, gripping the inside of his elbows to ease him away, noticing his arms bulge against you in frustration.

“Yeah? _When?”_ he shouts. “I can’t fucking walk around in public like this!!”

“Okay!” you say more firmly, “I get you’re angry!  It’s fair!  Just,” you put a hand high on his chest to pat and calm, “you’re a little too angry.”

He looks at you, brow creasing with distress. “I’ll have every Twi-hard following me around town!!” he cries, voice almost breaking.  He stops leaning, looking down at you pleadingly.

“Yeah,” you agree, getting your feet under yourself again.  “That was very Edward when you lunged across the table.”

He looks back down the hall.  You spot the signs of fury rising again and speak just as he tenses to move. “Okay, no, _woah_ ,” you step in front of him and hold your hands up, still working on keeping a straight face.  “Let me help, okay?”

His breath puffs out of his nose like a matador’s bull and you tactfully bite your tongue to keep yourself serious.  It takes a moment for his raging glare to settle on you and not where he’d rather be, throttling his brother.  You wait till he’s calmed down some more, until you’ve heard a deep breath and seen him slump into frustrated resignation.

“Let me help,” you repeat firmly and collect his wrist to lead him to your bathroom.  

“Y/N,” Dean whines deeply, “I’d really rather just beat up my brother.”

“I know, but the longer you leave that stuff the more it’ll settle and stick to your skin,” you explain, trudging him down the hall.  “Let me have at it.”

Dean takes another deep breath and lets you drag him by the arm, each step jolting as he resists moving down the corridors.  

He stalls a little in the doorway in a sour grump.  “Come on you big baby,” you frown, and let your hand slip into his.  “Take some help for once.”

In your bathroom the shower is just inside the door to your left.  The low sink is next to it, surrounded by some bench, and there’s a modest mirrored cabinet above it.  You lead him to stand before his reflection and turn him to face the twinkling music.

“Now, the only reason I’m showing you this,” you explain, “is so that, after we’re done, you can see how much better it is.”

Dean’s gaping at the image of himself, a veritable cosplay in the works, and ducks his head a little to see the top.  Then he quickly closes his eyes, waving his hands before him.  “I can’t-  I can’t even-” he turns away.  “I’m gonna do him with rainbow glitter. In his jocks too!” he grinds out.

“No, don’t,” you scold. “For one, with that hair he’ll be granting wishes for a year.”  You collect the chair from your room plus the shampoo from the far edge of the sink and come back saying “and two, he’ll be looking for it.”  

After laying a folded towel over the sink rim you nod at him to sit, then wrap another towel around his shoulders.  “And I’d really rather not have to wash Sam’s hair for him.  Lean back?” you suggest.  He does, and you shuffle the chair to support him so that his neck isn’t pressing against the sink too much.

“Comfy?” you check.

“Yeah,” he admits, his tone completely different, almost surprised.  “What’s wrong with washing Sam’s hair?”

“Nothing, it’d just… be a bit weird I suppose.  Actually, take your flannel off; the collar might get wet,” you instruct and he shrugs off the towel to do so.  

As he flicks the fabric off his shoulders his t-shirt gapes a little. You get a glimpse down his back and a streak of skin shimmering down his spine.

Dean re-wraps the towel and leans back so that he can look at the ceiling and notices you chewing your smile.  “What?” he snaps, instantly shitty again.

You clear your throat as you collect a nearby cup, tipping out the toothbrush and paste before washing it. “The um… when you rinsed your hair it must’ve… gone… down your back,” you say, your cheeks fighting to relax.  Dean just rolls his eyes in exasperation. “You’d make the most _fabulous_ gorilla,” you flounce.

“Uuuuuuuuhfuuuck,” he groans and put his hand over his eyes.  

You catch his wrist, softly saying “Don’t do that, we haven’t washed them yet. Keep your eyes closed.” He lets you wipe at his face with the corner of the towel, then drags his palms over the towel on his chest.  

You take a deep breath, trying not to think too hard about what you’re about to do – something apparently not unusual – and turn on the taps.  You’re standing on his right, his left shoulder almost against your chest, your shirt and thigh occasionally grazing his arm while he holds his hands low on his belly.  

As you wait for the hot water, you think of how you’ve never really seen him with his eyes closed and in proper light.  His freckles look different, and his eye lashes have incredible reach…

He opens his eyes and for a second looks straight at you.  Your stomach trembles, just like it does whenever there’s nothing to distract from him being so close.  You forget your sevens.  You’re fighting to keep a casual countenance but chicken out of the eye contact to focus back on the water, swishing your hand in the bowl to check the temperature, and decide it’s ready.

He’s watching you, still, for some reason.  It’s making you so nervous that your gaze flicks around but it seems helplessly bungeed to his. So you crack a joke: “I never noticed how sparkly your eyes are-”

“Okay,” he grunts, going to get up, “I don’t really need your help-”

“Nononono,” you insist, pressing on his shoulder and cradling his head so he doesn’t knock it as he leans back again. “Come on, you need my shampoo at the least. Just…”

He lets you guide him and sighs, reclining again, eyes closed and frowning. “Just _let me_.  You don’t need glitter everywhere else too,” you remind.

He clenches his jaw and seems to give in.

You rest the side of your hand high on his forehead, pour the warm water over his hair and he takes an involuntary, filling breath.  You work your way around, shielding his face from the water and wetting the top and sides.  Then you cup your hand to press water onto the back of his head, which suddenly seems like the most intimate thing you’ve ever done.  You wet his hair all over, down to the roots, and apply some shampoo.

Dean’s head lolls with your motions, your hands firm and slow as you make sure to rub over every centimetre of scalp to lift the glitter.  His eyebrows fall up and by the time you’re half way done his mouth has dropped open a little, his chin gone slack.

A while longer and you ask “When was the last time you had your hair washed?”

“Uuuugh,” he works his tongue and swallows to wake it. “Um, never.”

“Really?” You shouldn’t be that surprised, but you are. “You’ve been missing out.”

“Yeahm,” he drawls.  “Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Relaxing?”

“I’m drooling,” he mumbles.

“Don’t fart,” you warn.

He smiles a lazy, slack-jawed smile, and you feel proud for a moment. You know you’re taking your time but you can’t help it.  You just want to make him feel good for as long as possible.  You want him to feel good because of you.

By now he’s relaxed enough that his hands have fallen into his lap and his knees have sagged apart. You’re half expecting him to start snoring.  You rinse out the shampoo, gently shielding his face again, and find you need to reach around him to lift his head a little and flush away the suds at the back.  

While you’re close and taking the weight of his head, the sound of his breath bouncing off your arm and side wakes him a little and he’s suddenly conscious of the inch between your breast and his cheek.  He collects himself a little and blushes slightly, hoping he hasn’t gotten chubby by accident.  He’s only wearing track pants and, well, this is undeniably pleasurable.

You stand back and look at his hair, missing the receding pink in his cheeks.  The sparkle is maybe half what it was; not enough for your liking.

“What?” he asks.  “Is it better?”

You look at him and flatten your bottom lip as you suck your teeth. “Mmmm, not as better as I’d like.  I think, maybe if I use conditioner I can comb it out some, slide it away.”

The bathroom is shallow, so going around his legs is awkward enough that you decide to reach for the bottle.  You have to lean over him and he starts a little, shifting up in his chair and dropping his left arm down so you don’t have to touch him.  It means your breasts are nearly in his face – _ooh crap!_ \-  and you look down to find him with his eyes now closed, jaw set firm, like he’s in pain.  His hand hovers around your legs, fighting the instinct to help you do whatever you’re doing.  It’s one of those gestures you watch out for, how his arms seem to shepherd or be ready to help.  Even as you grab the conditioner, your vision is overtaken with the image of his large hand just landing on your thigh and sliding up to your waist, maybe down over the pockets and curling around between your legs.   _If he would just-  No! Focus!_

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

“Mm-hmm,” he says and you see his jaw flex.

You noisily pour a generous blob of conditioner into your hand, slathering it over your fingers, enjoying the shlucking sounds.  You don’t watch, but you do see Dean open his eyes and mouth and stare at the ceiling. _I should’ve gone round his legs._

“You got any styling products?” you ask.

“A few,” he says, still tense.

“Well, this might fluff you up for a while, so find them if you need to tame it,” you advise. “Sorry, do you want your arm back?” you say, realising it’s still almost around you.

You step away and he puts it back on his lap, discreetly checking his groin while you’re distracted with the goop.  Things are 'not as he left them’ down there, so he tries using conversation to keep himself awake and distracted.  Maybe, he thinks, he can tee up this thing between you and Sam and get it over with.

“So, what’s wrong with washing Sam’s hair?” he asks casually.  “I hear it’s like silk.”

You smile a little. “I’m sure there are witches craving it,” you agree, “but I’d rather not have to do something so intimate with him.”

Dean can’t help but let the cogs turn him his head:   _So intimate with me is okay… or is this not intimate at all?_ He decides he can’t dance around double-meaning chit-chat and jumps to the end:  “I thought you might kinda like him,” he says, kind of like a question, and swallows nervously.   _That was pathetic!!_ he thinks. _What the fuck am I doing?_

You pause and look down.  “Sam? No, I-” you collect more conditioner and work on getting it on every thread of Dean’s hair and all over his scalp.  He’s beginning to look a bit ridiculous.

“Sam’s pretty awesome,” you think aloud, “like, I think if I’d met Sam at college I’d have lost a few friends in that race, but… I dunno. He just doesn’t do it for me.”

“Really?” Dean checks.  “I thought you guys were close.”  His voice is light but his expression is almost grim.  His eyes have fixed themselves on a spot on the wall.  

“We are,” you agree, “and I love it, but I _cannot_ imagine us together.  I can’t imagine him, and me,…” your cheeks pick up awkwardly at the thought.  “I can’t even blue-screen us together.  Too much a brother.”

Dean licks his lips and nods a little.  He waits for it to sink in.   _Sam’s not for you.  No Sam.  Sam no._

Inside the mirrored-cabinet you find your fine-toothed comb.  There’s enough glitter in the bowl now, some of it floating, to warrant changing the water.  So you pull the plug, swish the basin clean and begin to comb out the shimmering conditioner, rinsing the comb under the faucet between each effort.

You have a hunch about something.  It’s almost mathematical, and based on the list of facts you have about the last hour or so, or even the last few months.  While you comb and rinse, you try to build a conversation that will answer your curiosity without implying too much…

Soon, you’ve combed every hair from front to back and his head is capped in fine white lines.  Dean looks up at you, maybe wondering where things are at so you say “Looking better.”

“Completely better?”

“Well, right now you look like someone from Swan Lake, but we’ll see,” you say, half confident.  “You still comfortable?”

“Very,” he sighs.

You get your fingertips back onto his scalp and begin to massage.  This step is not necessary, not according to how well the glitter has been removed so far.  However, working Dean into a state of buttery, slurring compliance would certainly go your way, so you begin to slide your fingers over his head, working symmetrically, down the centre and over the curves.  You circle above his ears where the muscles help clench his jaw, and after half a minute or so you watch them release his face into passive bliss.

“Dean?” you croon as your digits slide around the edge of his skull.

“Nnng.”

“Why would you want me to go out with Sam?”

“…He’s a nice guy,” he slurs.

“So?”

“You deserve a nice guy,” he says, almost exactly the same way.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, someone smart and sweet,” he swallows, “someone you like laughing with… Someone who puts your songs on his player.”

“He only did that coz mine was broken,” you share.

“Oh,” he breathes, his brain barely functioning enough to register the fact.

“How did you know he did that?” you wonder.

“They were your songs,” he babbles.

You start to work one hand on top and one at the back, drawing pressure to the crown.  Dean sucks in half a snore at the sensation.  

“I think…” you take a deeper breath and hope.  “I think I’d like a guy I’m really attracted to though.  Someone a bit burlier than Sam, with fuller lips…  shorter hair.  And a complete hottie, of course.”

“Naw well you deserve one, Y/N,” he says, the conditioner apparently working like a truth serum.  “You’re too gorgeous to settle for average…  An’ I dunno any guy could… really appreciate the way you fight,.. your form.  So hot when you do that…  I mean, you draw them, when we go to bars I see 'em lookin’ and i'sso hard not to get between you coz you’re better… an…” he smacks his mouth and works his lips, speaking a bit clearer this time. “And you could be Sam’s girl, if you want.”

“But I’m not Sam’s girl,” you say, “and I don’t want that.” You begin to run the water again to fill the cup and guide it over his hair.  “And Sam doesn’t want to get between me and other guys.”

Dean opens his eyes and swallows himself back to life.  You keep rinsing, noticing how little glitter there is left in his hair, really only flecks stuck to his scalp now.  He watches you work out the conditioner, which takes a while, and seems to become more like himself again.  Aware, present, and planning.

By the time you turn off the tap, you think he knows something is up.  

He’s realising he called you hot, that you know he’d doesn’t like the other guys, he knows you know… something.

You step back a little and help him sit up again, then collect the towel around his shoulders and start to rub is hair dry.

“Your setting me up with Sam,” you say half-jokingly, taking your biggest risk yet, “is a bit clunky.  Seems a bit 'He doth protest too much.’ You know?”

He sits there, letting you buff, and you curse yourself for choosing now to say that.  You can’t see his face, and you’re in the middle of a task.  Your heart thumps as the seconds pass because he hasn’t moved or answered and you’ve just accused him of deflecting a crush he has _on you_ , which now feels like the height of arrogance, possibly twisting a good friendship indefinitely, and a cold rush of dread drops over you.

You rub at his head more, maybe a little too vigorously, and hope he’ll fucking say something.  But he doesn’t and you think you’re a few pounds thinner from the tension.  You sigh harshly and drop the towel on his shoulders.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

“Pretty fluffy,” you report.  “Like you hatched an hour ago.  But it’s fairly clear.”

You move his head, not that kindly, to turn him to check the back.  He wraps his fingers around your wrist to stop you and you let go.

“You don’t like pecan pie,” he says and looks up at you.

“No, not really.”

“You make it nearly twice a month.”

“Yeah, well…” _Because I’m making it for you, you ass,_ you think.  You’re regretting your prying and starting to panic, unsure of what you’ve just done.

Dean stands and he asks, “What _is_ your favourite?”  He drops the towel on the chair and leaves his flannel there too.  

You look over the bathroom and wonder if this small, glaring room is the last place you’ll have had a comfortable conversation with what was your good friend Dean.

“Peach,” you mutter, and freeze a little because he’s firmly taken your hand in his.

You look up at him, his closeness, and feel his heat and size before you. He take the hand he holds and places it on his back, just below his ribs, and slides his fingers up your arm. You watch him move, get stuck on the soft skin inside his arm and try _so hard_ to think.

“Y/N,” he speaks softly, like an apology, and leans down as he says “I could eat peach pie all damn day.”

His lips land on yours and your arm reacts, bending to press you together.  He moves the kiss and you open your lips keenly, your tongues meeting quickly, and suddenly his smooth, hot hands envelope your head and pull you close, your mouth is pressed against his, and he moans against you.

Before you can even make a plan, or do anything you’ve dreamed of, Dean’s holding you hard enough to lift you and apparently frantic to feel your bones against him.  Your heart races with it, months of managed want pushing itself forward and you’re near climbing into his t-shirt to get closer.

“Fuck,” he breathes over you, sliding his body and limbs over yours, “I can’t believe I tried to set you up with Sam!”

“I know, why the fuck would you?” you gasp.

“Because he’s a better-”

“What?!” you snap.  “Not for me!  I want you!”

He blinks a little and huffs a laugh. “So I hear.”

You reach up on your toes and pull him down with your hand, having those full lips and shamelessly kissing him with all you’ve got.  He lets you lead it and seconds pass while you both mentally shift the paradigm that was your friendship.

“Dean?” you ask, sliding you hand up his back.

“Mmph?”

“I have a confession.”

“'Kay,” he breaks away from your mouth and bounces kisses down your neck and under your ear, “shoot.”

“It’s been a long while since I really, um, followed through with any of those guys,” you explain, poorly, “and I’ve been living here quite a while… Living with you… being around… you…” Focusing while a little over six foot of ravenous heat grabs and bites at you is a challenge for anyone, really.  “And… So… ah-am… I’m not too fussed about taking things slowly.”

“Do I look like I’m taking things slowly?” he muffles into your neck. He curls his body against you, showing you how thoroughly he’s interested in your suggestion.

“Ugh, no, not really,” you moan and hold him tighter.  

He gets your hips against the sink, and you start to feel drunk from the feel of him on so much of you, his fingers pushing past fabric, tugging at loops and hems as he gets at your skin.  He dives his fingers down your waist band, feeling your ass cheeks give against his hold, then threads them around to the front, trying to feel that dip at the hip. “Shit, Y/N,” he breathes, “Fucking months.”

He leans back and both of you pull off your shirt, then his, and bounce back against each other again. He tugs at a strap saying “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you grunt, distracted by the smooth contours of his torso as he removes your bra.  He kisses you more, pressing your bodies together and your mouths surge against each other, your breasts heaving against him as you roll on each inhale.

You flap your arm back, finding the edge of the cabinet and break away a moment to locate a condom you’re sure is in there.  You hesitate for a minute - “Oh,” and check the expiry date, “s'ok, s'ok,” you nod quickly.

“Okay,” he nods back, eyes locked on yours as you put the condom beside you. You reach your face and hands back up to him and hum into smearing kisses.  

“Pants,” you puff.  You go for your buttons, Dean pulls his elastic down, both of you remaining attached at the mouth as you bend forward to push down all the waistbands far enough to get your knees out and march them off.

You straighten, smacking together, and Dean’s groan bounces out of him as his full cock is squashed between you. “Sorry,” you say. “S'okay,” he answers and wraps his arms around you.

Then he sighs and slows down a bit, enough for you to notice you’re near hyperventilating   He holds your head against him, while his other hand moves across he curve of your back, the palm pressed against you, then down and over to your ass cheek to feel the soft, giving curve there.  His fingertips tickle lightly in the dip as he moves over to the other side, and you breathe in a little in surprise, even as you wiggle your pelvis against his.

He dips down a collects your leg with his arm, pulling your knee up his waist and spreads his hand high on your thigh.  You’re still pulling on his neck and now his ribs as you stand in the middle of the room, almost unbalanced if he wasn’t holding you tight enough to lift a heel off the tiles.

His fingertips slip over your crease, detecting the wetness already smeared on the outside, and you open your eyes to find him already look at you, checking your expression as he dares to dip into your heat. He slips a fingertip between and up, finding that little bump and tipping it a few times.

Your eyes lose focus and you clench your leg against him a little. “That feels nice,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You want me to do more?”

You close your eyes and feel him press a little harder, move side to side a few times.  “Yeah,” you sigh, “do you know what you want?”

Dean has you firmly in his hold, his forearm behind your shoulder while he cradles your head, but still he adjusts his hold, working you against his wanting cock.  “Yeah, but,” he absently licks his lips, “it’s um… everything.”

“Do that,” you open your eyes again and get the heels of your hands behind  his ears, forcing him to kiss you again.

“You sure?” he mumbles against you. “I mean-”

“Do you mean a good solid fucking?”

“Ugh, fuck, Y/N,” he rolls your head with his, mashing his lips into your cheek and jaw. “Yeah, that’s been on my mind for a while.”

“Good,” you say firmly.  “Anything less and my pussy’s going to cry.”

The man can work fast.

Dean grabs you by the ribs and nearly lifts you out of the way.  He gets the condom on in record time, flicks the towel and shirt off the chair and flips it around to face the sink.  He grabs you back, lifting you up to wrap your legs around his waist, and sits to that you’re sandwiched between his body and the chair back.  

Your mouths bump as you kiss again, and you rock your pelvis, nudging your wet lips around his erection, reveling in the way it makes him moan. He’s quickly frustrated and lifts you by the ribs and ass, watching you lead his length back to your opening, and slides you down onto him.

You gasp and groan, nails digging in, and breathe as he presses his forehead to yours.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans. “That’s… oh _Christ_ ” he kisses your cheek, your ear.  “How you doin’?”

“Mmm,” you answer.  “Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you almost whine it, and roll yourself against him, arching your back to get the friction you suddenly need.  “Yes, Dean, good,” and pull his head down to your chest.

He gets his mouth around your nipple and you writhe over him, encouraging him to move in you and soon enough your rolling has teased him to distraction.  He gives up on your breasts and growls “Uh, Jesus,” before snatching up into you.

“A-ah!” you cry out, and smack your hands around his neck and shoulders.  He pauses to see if that was a good or bad sound.  “Oh!” you snap your jaw closed, and grind out “More!”

Dean reaches behind you and hooks his fingers around the chair’s top rail, hugging you into it.  You feel your breasts pushed up against his chest and bulging bicep.  He plants his other hand against the wall and thrusts again.  You cry out like before and quickly groan through it.  The thickness of him pushes into you, spreads you apart, and a sweet, lactic ache reaches up your body, everything swelling to accommodate.  It’s fucking perfect fucking.

He sets a shallow pace, kissing about your neck and shoulder, puffing a little and rocking while his mouth works its way back up, waiting for you to look down and kiss back.  As soon as your lips touch his, he thrusts into you again, moaning at the way your voice aches in response.  “Wanna feel your voice in my throat, Y/N.”

“Go Dean,” you puff, “go as hard as you want. Don’t stop.”

He says something, but you miss it because his hips start to violently pump and the chair squeals against the floor.  You know you’re making some sort of noise but you don’t care about anything but the way he’s fucking you deeper than you’d ever hoped. It’s fast and sweaty and exactly what you need to satiate countless nights of longing.

Tightness grows behind your pubic bone, pulling at your open groin and tingling across your skin.  Dean’s sounds have dropped back and he’s kissing around your chin again so you tilt down to meet him.  He lets go of the chair and slips his hand down your front, and you know it’ll finish you too soon.  “No! Dean, do-!” but his thumb is there and you throw your head back at the voltage, your core spasming in response already.  He grabs your head and forces your mouth on his, but he suddenly he can’t kiss you either, a low, surprised moan thumping from his chest and your orgasms ache out of you loudly.  You both push against each other, the chair desperately creaking under you, and puff noisily as your skin and self slowly stops ringing. Soon it’s at a low buzz, then a hum, and then you’re hugging him, his breadth inside your arms, and the downiest fluff you’ve ever felt beneath your chin.

* * *

 

At dinner, Sam sits beside Dean and frowns at his terribly boring hair. “It’s almost completely gone,” he says sadly.

“Yup,” Dean grins, biting into his home-made pizza.  “Y/N, washed it out for me.”

Dean didn’t expect Sam to smile like that  - a satisfied, unsurprised, _happy_ smile - and he chews darkly.

You arrive with a plates of slices for yourself and Sam, and catch his pleasant air as you sit.

“You did a good job,” he comments, nodding at Dean’s hair.

“Yeah, thanks,” you answer, glancing at Dean a little.

Sam picks up his drink and sips.  His gaze drops to glints of silver around your neck, odd flecks of it disappearing into your shirt.  “Do you think you go it all?” he asks.

“Yeah, most of it,” you consider and decide to play it lightly.  “There’s still a little left but it comes off okay.”  

“Hope you didn’t get too much on yourself,” Sam commiserates, hardly even pretending to not be a complete smart ass.  You know _he knows_.

You tilt your head at him, the cheeky bastard.  “I don’t mind,” you say and he bounces his eyebrows at you while he takes another drink, which is when you add, “Best vajazzling I ever got.”

Sam chokes on his drink, pushing his chair back as he coughs violently. Dean drops his food to slow clap it out, muffling “That’s my girl,” from a proud cheese-filled grin.


End file.
